


you were right about the end (didn't make a difference)

by 2liga



Category: Champions League - Northendgirls, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Break up sex, F/M, Personification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2liga/pseuds/2liga
Summary: Iker’s only ever touched Madrid once.





	you were right about the end (didn't make a difference)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically assuming that anyone who reads this fic will already be i n t i m a t e l y aware of the concept but just in case, you can admire Northendgirls gorgeous footy gijinkas [here](http://northendgirls.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> And the title is of course from [The National](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1HExEHcWlk) cos I'm a sad sack.

 

 

Twenty-five years and Iker’s only ever touched Madrid once.

Technically, only five years: he’d only _known_ she was there when he’d been given the armband, when Raúl had kissed his forehead and said _Iker, there’s someone you have to meet._

That had been the first time he’d seen her. But he’d always known, somewhere in his chest. How could he have not known?

 _You’re always there between the posts,_ Madrid whispers. _That’s how you knew._

Iker’s only ever touched Madrid once. After they’d won La Decima, that coveted trophy, and he had draped Cibeles gently in glory and turned and Madrid had been there and he had kneeled down and kissed her hand, barely daring to, almost unsure if she would vanish like smoke at the contact.

Madrid had smiled and twitched aside her cloak. “Iker.” She had taken his hand and pulled him to stand. “Captain Casillas.”

If Iker hadn’t been in love with Madrid before that moment his lips had brushed her skin, that moment she had raised him back up to stand beside her, then he most certainly was after.

He doesn’t know if there’s a rule against it, or just a practice. Perhaps other captains were more intimate with their...clubs, for lack of a better form of address, and it was just that Iker had always hesitated. There was, after all, a stateliness about Madrid that deterred casual contact. And she had never touched him.

So it’s a surprise when she does.

 

 

 

She is there in the stadium when Iker takes his literal last bow, and she is there when he returns to the Bernabeu that night, slipping in the same way he has for years when he needs somewhere to think.

He doesn’t startle at the sight of her standing at the touchline when he emerges from the tunnel. Part of him had been expecting her- or rather, hoping for her. He has come here to be alone but really, alone is the last thing he wants right now.

 

 

 

Madrid spreads her cloak on the pitch. The expanse of red silk and white fur would have looked out of place against the grass if it had not belonged to Madrid, who would never have been out of place anywhere that football was played. She was regal and untouchable, and utterly, completely at one with the grass and dirt and blood that went into Iker’s profession.

“Sit with me,” Madrid says, and it’s a request.

 

 

 

She smiles at him, cryptic and inviting and lifts her chin ever so slightly, baring the column of her throat. He pushes her back, hesitant still but gaining confidence that this is what Madrid wants him to do. And Iker has always done what Madrid wants him to.

Madrid lets herself be lain down and Iker leans over her, to lay kisses on her red lips and down the line of her throat, undoing the loops on her dress as he does so and pushes it off her shoulders, opening an expanse of skin for him to press his lips to. Her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach. Iker wants to taste everything- he wants to taste _her._ Madrid, his Madrid, for the first and the last time ever.

She breathes in sharply when he slides down between her legs, nudging her open with gentle fingers to lick inside. She’s already wet and Iker’s fingers slip into her easily alongside his tongue. The taste of her is sharp and bitter. He wants it.

 

 

 

Madrid doesn’t make a sound when Iker enters her, her legs hooked around his back and her breasts spilling over the top of her unlaced bodice. The only sign that she’s just as affected as he is by the feeling of their bodies pressed close together, the air between them practically shimmering against the cool night, is her widened eyes and her perfect mouth falling open in a silent _O._

She is tight, possessive heat, pulling Iker in and he can only helplessly follow.

 

 

 

“I spoke to her. She’ll take care of you.” Madrid breaths in his ear, her cloak still wrapped about them, fingers caressing the side of his jaw. “She’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you.”

“ _No.”_ Madrid says sharply. “Never say that. _Never.”_

“It’s only true,” he protests, wanting to turn and look at her, wanting her to know that it’s the truth that burns so hotly in his heart he’s frightened, sometimes, of what she does to him. Of what this club means to him.

And perhaps she can sense his desperation to make himself understood because Madrid, who had gone rigid and coldly angry, relaxes again, her fingertips apologetic against the curve of his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me that.” She says, voice a gentle laugh, slightly self-mocking perhaps because Iker knows that Madrid is a beautiful woman who likes to be told as much, and he knows that she knows this as well. “I know, Iker. I know. And everyone knows that you believe it as well, but you can’t say it again.” She sighs. “You have to learn. You have to learn how not to be a one-club man.”

“I don’t know _how,_ ” Iker says, voice struggling not to break. “I-”

Madrid places a single slender finger against his lips, silencing him. “You have to learn. You’re a smart man, Iker Casillas. You have to learn.”

 

 

 


End file.
